Stopping starts it all. A return to the innate organic patterns of the world. How many times has this branching spread caught my eye? Whether in a drying tree, from a splattered water spill on the sidewalk, or in a searing frying pan as yoke and white begin their stilling form over crackling oil, the reaching tendrils spread. Out to something unseen, someplace out there, somewhere. It is out there still. As it has always been. Whatever these organic branches reach for is out there. Noticing this unseen pull while stopping, brings me back often. Back to where I began. The place we came from. The spirit of a life worth living and fighting for while conflict and challenge, frustration and pain vie to make me forget my unseen energy. Neither invisibility nor obstacle can make me forget my inherent Time of the Season. I wont let them.